


Soothing Rituals

by celtic7irish



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Clint & Natasha friendship, Fluff, Gen, Minor Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 13:59:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celtic7irish/pseuds/celtic7irish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is the only person (other than herself) that Natasha lets brush her hair. Sometimes she even lets him do something fancy with it, even though that’s not her style, to satisfy the circus boy in him. It’s soothing for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soothing Rituals

The mission had been one long sideways fuckup, and Clint was exhausted. His whole body ached, covered in bruises, and he was pretty sure that at least three of his ribs were cracked. Not to mention the sprained shoulder. It would be a while before he could pull a bow again. All he wanted to do at this point was get a hot shower, shovel some food into his mouth, and sleep for at least twelve hours. Actually, he might just skip the eating part until after he’d gotten some much-needed sleep.

 

From the start, the mission had been compromised, but Steve and Natasha’s surprise attack on SHIELD had not helped at all. The moment SHIELD fell, exposing Hydra’s machinations at the same time, Clint had found himself without an extraction plan or back up. The two SHIELD agents with him – the only two that weren’t secretly Hydra goons – had died in the initial attack, and only sheer dumb luck had saved Clint from the same fate. Well, that and the fact that the Hydra agents seemed to think that he knew more than he’d let on.

 

So now, nearly ten days after the collapse of SHIELD, Clint was dragging his ass back to Avengers Tower, tired and pissed off. He was going to have some serious words with his partner just as soon as he saw her. Steve, he sort of expected that kind of behavior from – it was well-documented that Captain America didn’t tolerate bullies, and Hydra was made of little else. He was mostly just pissed that Natasha hadn’t seen fit to give him warning.

 

The doors to the Tower slid open as Clint approached, and JARVIS’s smooth voice greeted him. _“Agent Barton, welcome back. Please proceed straight to the elevators. I have informed sir of your arrival, and he asks that you stop by the medical ward before retiring to your rooms.”_ Clint just nodded tiredly as he stepped into the elevator, slumping against the far wall. _“Initial scanning diagnostics would indicate that you are suffering from widespread ecchymosis and lacerations, as well as three fractured ribs, and swelling of the right ankle and shoulder.”_

 

Clint grimaced and cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he grumbled. “Injuries, need to see the docs. Just take me to the med ward so I can get this over with.” And then sleep for about twenty years, he added silently.

 

 _“Of course, Agent Barton,”_ JARVIS replied smoothly, even as the elevator slowed and then came to an easy stop. _“Please proceed directly to Ward Eight,”_ he instructed. Clint frowned; eight? Why one that was nearly at the opposite end of the building from the elevators?

 

The moment the elevator doors opened, he was hit with a wall of noise, and suddenly JARVIS’s instructions made sense. There were doctors and nurses scattered everywhere, pushing medical equipment and patients from room to room, calling stats and instructions over the beep and whine of machines. It reminded him eerily of the aftermath of the Battle of New York, except that he recognized most of the people here. SHIELD agents.

 

“Oh, thank fucking god you’re here,” a familiar voice called over the din, and Tony Stark hurried in his direction, a harried Bruce Banner right on his heels. “And walking under your own power,” he observed, nodding in approval. “Good. Come on. This way.” He turned back around and strode away, and Clint stared after him blankly. Tony glanced back in irritation. “Look, Robin Hood, I’ve got shit to do today, but if I don’t make sure you’re looked after, Romanov will have my head. So get a move on, would you?”

 

Bruce shot him a sympathetic smile before gently herding him after the retreating billionaire.   “It’s good to see you, Clint,” he murmured, not offering to help Clint but staying nearby in case the archer needed a bit of support. “We looked for you afterwards,” he admitted, “but you had already gone completely dark. He might not say it, but Tony was really happy to hear from you.”

 

“Yeah, and if you had just told me when you were going to be in town, Legolas, I would’ve had a car pick you up,” Tony said, standing in the doorway to Ward Eight with his hands on his hips, glaring at him.

 

Clint just offered him a weary shrug. “I didn’t have a phone on me, and by the time I hit New York, it was just faster to get here on my own,” he explained. Tony still looked doubtful, but he nonetheless moved off to the side so Clint could walk into the room.

 

Assistant Director Maria Hill was waiting for him inside. “Agent Barton, it is good to see you,” she greeted.

 

Clint blinked at her in confusion. “What’re you doing here? Is this the new SHIELD headquarters or something?” he asked at last.

 

Hill’s lips tightened minutely, but her response was just as brusque and efficient as usual. “SHIELD no longer exists, not as it was. I am head of security for Stark Industries.”

 

Clint grinned. “So you’ve finally moved into the private sector, huh?” he teased, even as he let Bruce ease him down onto a hospital bed, two nurses bustling around and setting up an IV, talking quietly amongst themselves.

 

Maria shrugged. “Something like that,” she agreed, her expression carefully blank. Clint narrowed his eyes at her, but he was too tired to bother trying to decrypt the former assistant director’s words.

 

“Whatever,” he muttered, wincing as a needle was inserted into the back of his hand and careful fingers prodded at his shoulder and ankle. Carefully, he eased back into a reclining position, taking some of the weight off of his hurt ribs. “Ow, fuck,” he hissed, the aches and pains making themselves more obvious now that the adrenalin was ebbing away with a return to something approaching safety.

 

Tony grinned at him. “Don’t worry, Katniss,” he offered. “You won’t be feeling anything in a little bit. I got you the good drugs.”

 

Clint grinned back at him. “My hero,” he sighed, mock swooning. Tony just rolled his eyes, then looked at Maria, who nodded. He looked back at Clint.

 

“Look, I’ve got to go, there’s a lot to catch up on. I’ll have JARVIS or somebody fill you in later, but for now, just chill, okay? Let the drugs do their job.”

 

Clint nodded, his eyes already slipping closed as the painkillers started working. “Nat?” he managed to slur out.

 

“She’s fine. Better than you,” Tony replied quickly. “She’ll probably be back when you wake up.” Clint was asleep before he could ask anything else.

 

When he woke up, the ward was quieter, the occasional moan or murmur of reassurance breaking through the silence, but the bustling activity from earlier had died down, and Clint realized that it must be quite late, with all but the night staff trying to get some sleep. Carefully, he propped himself up on his elbows, struggling to sit up properly.

 

A delicate hand pushed firmly against his chest, and Clint allowed himself to drop back down, looking up at his partner and former lover. “Nat,” he breathed. “You’re okay.”

 

Dark eyes flickered across his face and body, cataloguing injuries. “Better than you,” Natasha agreed quietly. “What happened?”

 

Clint grimaced, settling himself more comfortably and staring up at the ceiling. “I was hoping you could answer that, actually,” he admitted. “All I know is that I was on an op in Bangladesh, and the next thing I know, bullets are flying and I’m being knocked out and kidnapped. What the fuck did you and Rogers do?”

 

Natasha frowned, smoothing his covers down in a rare gesture of nervousness. “There was no time,” she said. “We did what we felt was necessary. Hydra has been inside of SHIELD since its conception, and the only way to expose them was to bring the entire organization down. We lost a lot of people.” She hesitated for just a moment, then added, “I’m glad you weren’t one of them.”

 

Clint grinned up at her easily. “You know me, Nat. I’m a lot harder to kill than that.” He batted his eyes at her, and Natasha finally allowed her lips to quirk up into an approximation of a smile, her shoulders relaxing. Clint breathed a bit easier. “How about helping me to sit up?” he asked.

 

Natasha looked at him intently for a moment, but Clint really was feeling much better already. Whether that was Stark’s drugs or the fact that he’d finally gotten some actual sleep – if passing out for hours counted as sleeping – he didn’t know. Eventually, she nodded, moving around to the other side of the bed and pushing a button on the side that lifted the top half, easing Clint into a more-or-less upright position.

 

“Thanks,” he murmured. Natasha nodded graciously.

 

Pushing at Clint’s left leg, she waited until he moved it before climbing onto the bed and settling between his legs, her back to his chest. She had a hairbrush in her hand, and Clint didn’t even bother wondering where it had come from; it was Natasha, she did things like that. Silently, she offered it to him, and Clint smiled as he accepted it, reaching for Natasha’s hair, careful of his injured shoulder and busted ribs as the two of them worked out the most comfortable way to work this.

 

Once they were settled comfortably, Clint ran the brush carefully through Natasha’s hair, unsurprised when she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting her head move with every tug of the brush. Her hair was as soft and carefully groomed as always, but much shorter than it had been the last time Clint had seen her.

 

“You got your hair cut,” he observed needlessly. Natasha answered with a disinterested hum, enjoying the attention. Clint was the only person in the world – except for perhaps Coulson – who was allowed to brush her hair. With her back turned and her hair in Clint’s hands, Natasha was unusually vulnerable. If Clint were to tighten his grip just a bit, he could use it to move her, to pin her down. He would never do such a thing, though, and they both knew it. This ritual was as much about trust as it was about comfort.

 

Natasha’s hair sifted through Clint’s blunt archer’s fingers, and she sighed softly, her eyes closing to slits. Clint eyed the red tresses and wondered if she’d let him put her hair in a French braid. On occasion, when there was nothing else going on, or when she was going undercover to a high-society event, Natasha would let him twist her hair into ornate styles. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, Clint found himself trying to outdo previous styles without going overboard. Natasha didn’t really care for fancy hairdos herself, but Clint liked them, and it was enough that she let him play with it on occasion.

 

“What’re you thinking?” Natasha asked, not bothering to open her eyes.

 

Clint smiled. “I was just thinking that even though it’s short, I could still maybe put it in a French braid,” he admitted honestly.

 

Natasha seemed to consider that for a moment before nodding decisively, unperturbed by Clint’s hands still tangled in her hair. “All right,” she agreed.

 

Clint paused. “Really?” he asked. Natasha gave him a disgusted look over her shoulder, and he grinned. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You hate repeating yourself,” he chuckled. His fingers were already sorting out sections of her hair, and Natasha faced forward again, satisfied that he would do as he’d been told.

 

“Steve wants us to train this week,” she murmured. “A French braid would keep my hair out of my face, and it’s practical.” Both of those were true; what she wasn’t saying was that she – and Clint, by extension – would enjoy seeing the looks on the faces of the men with the new hairstyle. Tony, in particular, always demanded to know what Natasha was up to when she changed her appearance even a little bit. She’d just smile blandly at him and let him sweat for a bit.

 

As he worked on her hair, Clint allowed himself to hum softly under his breath. It was a lullaby – or as close to a lullaby as he knew – from his time spent in the circus. After a moment, Natasha’s softer tone joined his, and Clint found himself swaying, his hands steady as they manipulated Natasha’s hair into a tight braid, leaving just a few delicate strands to curve around her cheeks and chin, giving the entire creation an artistically casual appearance. He wondered idly what the others would make of it, but it didn’t really matter. This was just his and Natasha’s thing, something they did after hard missions, or after one of them went off-grid and reappeared mostly safe and whole.

 

When he finished, Natasha accepted the brush back from him and slipped off the bed. She lowered the upper half again, putting Clint on his back before leaning over him and brushing a chaste kiss over his forehead. “Thank you,” she murmured. She wasn’t talking about the braid.

 

Clint smiled, his eyes already dropping closed. “You’re welcome,” he replied, aware as Natasha settled herself into the comfortable chair next to his bed. “What’s next?” Because whatever she decided to do, he’d be right there with her. They were a unit, the two of them.

 

“We’ll figure that out later,” Natasha replied easily. “Steve wants us to stick around – give making the Avengers a permanent thing a go. I think I might accept. But there’s time for that. For now, get some sleep, so I can kick your ass for disappearing.”

 

Clint smiled, even as he drifted off to sleep, reaching out. Natasha’s hand slipped into his and squeezed lightly. She was okay; they both were. And she was right. They’d figure the rest out later.

 

They always did, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic inspired by a prompt from Bland Marvel Headcanons on Tumblr: http://blandmarvelheadcanons.tumblr.com/
> 
> "Clint is the only person (other than herself) that Natasha lets brush her hair. Sometimes she even lets him do something fancy with it, even though that’s not her style, to satisfy the circus boy in him. It’s soothing for both of them."
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr, if you'd like: http://celtic7irish.tumblr.com/


End file.
